


Lessons

by madamebadger



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Pining, Questioning Sexual Orientation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamebadger/pseuds/madamebadger
Summary: Cassandra knew that she was in trouble, one way or another.(Damn Leliana, anyway.)





	1. Chapter 1

Cassandra knew that she was in trouble, one way or another. Why else–after she had given her report on the soldiers in the Western Approach–would the Inquisitor have said “Stay a moment when we’re finished?” 

Why else, when the meeting was over, would Cullen have left–but Josephine and Leliana remained?

“What is it?” she asked, because it was in her nature to be direct.

“Oh!” said the Inquisitor, eyebrows raised with concern–because it was in _her_ nature to be earnest. “Nothing bad, at all. But in preparation for our appearance at Halamshiral, Josephine has been giving dancing lessons to many of our friends.”

Ah. “Cole,” Cassandra said.

To her surprise, Josephine laughed, a little. “No! Well, yes. But he turns out to be a superb dancer, given even the barest inkling of the proper steps.” 

(Cassandra was, surprisingly, not surprised. Compassion would of course be an excellent dancer. He would know immediately whether his partner wished him to lead or to follow, would know whether to be bold or demure, would probably never step on toes. He would like it, too, probably, which Cassandra has never been able to say for it herself.)

“No,” Josephine was saying. “Mostly I have been teaching Varric and the Iron Bull.”

(Cassandra now had the image in her mind of Josephine reaching well down to dance with Varric, and then well up to dance with Bull, and then–unbidden–the image in her mind was of Varric and Bull dancing, and she had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.)

“But,” Josephine said, with a finality that brought Cassandra out of her reverie, “Leliana indicated that perhaps you could do with a refresher.”

(No.)

(Damn Leliana, anyway.)

“I am fine,” Cassandra said. “There is no need for me to dance at Halamshiral at all.”

The Inquiisitor’s mouth crimped with amusement. “I notice you didn’t have any objection to Bull dancing. Or Varric. Or Cole.”

(Damn Leliana. Or damn the Inquisitor. But, though Leliana had as yet said nothing at all, Cassandra figured she was behind this. One way or another.)

“I have learned to dance,” she said, stiffly.

“A long time ago.” That was Leliana, sleek and smooth, speaking from behind her, and Cassandra turned to glare at her. (She was in the rarefied set of people who were not frightened by the Nightingale. But, then, too, Leliana was in the rarefied set of people who were not frightened by the Hero of Orlais.)

“I remember,” Cassandra said, as forbiddingly as she could.

“Then they will be quite short lessons,” Leliana said, cheerfully.

(Damn Leliana, anyway.)

* * *

Here was the problem: Cassandra was….

…

…all the words were terrible.

‘Infatuated’ was for adolescents. ‘In love’ was for songs and poems and, more importantly, relationships that had more to them than mooncalf looks furtively given. ‘Desirous’ was… true, but also crude. 

(Soft skin and clever eyes and silky hair and a scent of neroli and lemon balm that lingered in her presence, that kept Cassandra up long nights, alone in her loft room above the forge.)

‘Infatuated’ was for adolescence and mooncalves and also her, and that was the problem, and Leliana no doubt knew it and was not helping and there was a war on and–

There was a knock, at her door, and she said “Come in” without thinking, and there was Josephine.

(Not in her formal attire, but in a loose Antivan gown with sweeping skirts, in a shade of deep red that put roses in her cheeks and sunlight in the glinting of her hair and–)

“I thought perhaps you would prefer to have the dancing lessons here,” Josephine said. “Where it is private?”

Cassandra’s mouth was sandy-dry. She managed, barely, to say “Of course.”

Josephine smiled, brilliantly. “So!” she said. “We shall begin. Would you prefer to lead or follow?”

Both options filled Cassandra’s mind with thoughts. Thoughts. _Thoughts_. “Whichever,” she said, out of self-preservation.

“You shall lead, then,” Josephine said promptly. “You will be taller than most of your partners, male or female, I think; and so it will be easier. Here.” She took Cassandra’s hands, one clasped in her own, the other guided to her waist. “Leliana says you know the steps?”

“There is no music,” Cassandra said, and cursed herself.

“Too true,” Josephine said, with a smile that made a dimple show in the tender skin of her right cheek, and then–Maker preserve–she began to hum, a Fereldan waltz that Cassandra knew well.

She led, without thinking. She led.

She led, Josephine’s waist warm and real beneath her hand, Josephine’s fingers soft in hers, Josephine’s brilliant green-gold eyes half-closed as she hummed, and–

“This was a bad idea,” Cassandra said, despite herself.

“Mm?” Josephine said, eyes opening fully, deep as the sea. Deep enough to fall into.

“This was a very bad idea,” Cassandra said, and let go of Josephine’s hands, as she remembered her past, her future, her life; as she remembered Galyan, and what her love had done to him; as she remembered; as–

“I see,” Josephine said, each word dropping like a stone into water; each word solid and real. “I apologize for wasting your time, Lady Seeker. You clearly do know how to dance. Whatever Leliana said.”

“I–” Cassandra said.

Josephine smiled, but it was a different smile. Cassandra did not have the words to say how it was different.

(Cole would have. Or Bull. Or Varric. Smooth dancing, or reaching up, or reaching down. But she was none of them. She could only be herself.)

“It is quite all right, Lady Seeker. You need nothing from me, to do us credit at Halamshiral. But I should have expected no different from the Right Hand.” She curtsied, with a smooth swish of those silky skirts. Cassandra hated that curtsy. “I will have words with Leliana.”

“But–” Cassandra began… too late, as the door closed.


	2. Chapter 2

The problem, of course, was that Cassandra was not attracted to women.

Not that she was greatly experienced with men, either. She had had one lover, and a handful of infatuations, in all her life. Platonically, she liked women as well as men, respected them as often (which some might say was not very often for either gender, though she counted _that_ as an unfair generalization), and cared deeply for some of them. But the frission that made romantic or sexual attraction different than fondness or friendship did not happen with women. She had never met a woman who made her pulse race or turned her head, nor had she ever responded to a woman with that deep sweet upswelling of emotion that she felt when reading her romances. 

At the first, she had thought Josephine no exception. She was beautiful, of course. But that was hardly unusual; many at the Court in Orlais were beautiful, men and women, and Cassandra was largely indifferent to it except in a general aesthetic way. She was intelligent and charming, both useful traits in a diplomat—but charm, at least, Cassandra distrusted at least as much as she admired. She was was easy and appealing to be around (unless it suited her purposes better not to be, a fact that took some by surprise), but then, that was as much a part of her job as swordwork was a part of Cassandra's. Cassandra had been glad, of course, that Leliana had found a talented diplomatic advisor for them, and one that she trusted, but this was in large part because it freed Cassandra from any expectation of assisting with that sort of work. Josephine was a useful and amicable golden presence whose work Cassandra considered irrelevant to her own. If anything, the most useful thing she did from Cassandra's point of view was to moderate Leliana's increasingly dire moods.

Nevertheless, at Haven she had found herself pleased more often than not when Josephine made an appearance. Josephine was adept at rescuing her when someone, whether a fatuous noble or a starry-eyed would-be admirer, had cornered her in the Chantry's great hall or in the mess tent. She did not attempt to invite Cassandra to her interludes with Cullen and Leliana, but from time to time she would find Cassandra in the Singing Maiden, nursing a glass of wine, and would join her for conversation that managed to be useful and informative while still remaining light. She seemed content to hold up more than her fair share of the conversation, which was restful. Cassandra found that when more than a few days together passed without these conversations, brief though they often were, she missed them.

Still and all, she had thought very little of it. It was not as if there were not other women whose company she enjoyed, just as there were men whose company she enjoyed in a wholly nonromantic way. She was fond of Leliana, despite their frequent and occasionally bitter arguments. She had cared enormously for Divine Beatrix, her youthful awe turning into a respectful affection and then, later, as Beatrix descended into senility, in a fierce protectiveness. Enjoying Josephine's company did not _mean_ anything.

(It was only much later that she could admit to herself, ruefully, how hard she had been working at that self-deception, how studiously she had been ignoring her heart's thump of anticipation when the tavern's door had opened to a shimmer of firelit gilt-cloth.)

It took the siege at Haven and the flight into the mountains to bring herself to herself. Perhaps it had been a side-effect of the wild swooping of her emotions from despair to hope in the space of a few hours. Perhaps it had been the strain of the battle and the weariness of the journey. 

Perhaps it had always been inevitable.

Still, it was that day that she _knew,_ knew in a way that she could not deny. It was at the end of that long day, when she and Leliana and Josephine set up the tent that they would share. The tents were, in truth, made for only two, and a relatively tight fit even for that, but in their flight they had only been able to bring insufficient supplies for all the exiles. Perhaps it was for the best, because the nights in the snow brought bitter cold, and sleeping close provided some guard against the chill. They had erected the tent in exhausted silence, and then without a word Josephine had taken the middle spot. No doubt this had been the instinctive act of a peacemaker, for Cassandra and Leliana had spent much of the day shouting themselves hoarse at one another.

Cassandra had expected that she would fall to sleep immediately. Long soldiers' habits had granted her the ability to sleep quickly even in uncomfortable situations, and between that and the brutality of the day unconsciousness should have come swiftly. But she could not sleep immediately, her thoughts churning as she listened to the howl of the wind.

And she was aware, too, painfully aware of Josephine's closeness beside her, beneath the blankets heaped atop them. They had managed to arrange themselves carefully so as not to touch when awake, but tightly packed as they were, every sleeping shift brought a brush of Josephine's hand or the edge of her chemise. And though none of them smelled very good—sweat trapped beneath winter clothes grew rapidly sour—still she could detect the lingering scent of bright northern flowers and lemons, incongruous in this miserably dark place.

She closed her eyes, breathing steadily, and willed herself to sleep.

* * *

It was not that she had an issue with an attraction to women, she thought as they trekked over ice and snow all the next day. She knew in a general way that Leliana had loved both men and women, and thought nothing at all of it. It was that she was a grown woman, and she had thought she knew herself. It was disconcerting to realize that she had been wrong, in however small a way, about something so fundamental about herself. Her personality was flawed, she knew, she was blunt and she was impatient and she had a temper that shamed her from time to time and she had immense difficulty admitting when she was wrong—but at least she had _known_ herself, or so she had thought.

(But then, in her forty years of life she had loved only one man, and felt attraction to only a scant handful more. Perhaps it was simply that she was not attracted to many people at all in matters of the heart, and Josephine was simply the first such who was a woman.)

Beside her on the climb, Josephine slipped a little, and Cassandra reached out without thinking to catch her arm, and—yes, there was no pretending that the shiver that ran up her own arm at the contact was the cold, because it clearly was not. Josephine smiled up at her, a smile that was warm despite the icy air, and bright despite the weariness that lurked beneath Josephine's eyes. "Thank you," she said. "I am having difficulty with my footing."

"It is your shoes," Cassandra said. "When we stop, you must find the quartermaster and exchange them for boots."

But Josephine was shaking her head. "We have not enough for those in worse straits than me, whose shoes are missing or have holes in them. I cannot in good conscience take anything more, when my shoes are at least whole."

Cassandra pressed her lips together, but could not find a way or a reason to argue. "Then stay close to me," she said. "My boots are hobnail, and I do not slip easily." If Josephine's presence was also a warmth on this icy climb, well, there was no harm in it, she told herself.

Josephine gave her another tired smile. "Yesterday I leaned on Leliana too much, I am afraid," she said. "I have been trying to give her space since—but I suppose it doesn't matter."

"I am quite sure she did not mind," Cassandra said, and meant it. "But today she is ahead with the scouts."

"Then I am grateful to you for being here," Josephine said.

Cassandra could not blame the heat in her cheeks on the whipping of the wind, though she hoped that Josephine would attribute it to that. Internally, she cursed herself. How strange and how awkward, to be learning something so very new about herself _now_ , of all places and times.

**Author's Note:**

> Rating may change!


End file.
